


Only Mine

by Puniyo



Series: Compass [9]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Experimental writing, M/M, Olympics 2018, Sequel, drama and sugar, porn with plot (well some), purple again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 22:16:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13820562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puniyo/pseuds/Puniyo
Summary: 'Later is only for Javi.'But later never came. Javier tries to apologize but Yuzuru wants more.Sequel toMine





	Only Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear readers! I challenged people last time to write a sequel for [Mine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13778283) but I'm the one who end up doing it ^^' 
> 
> It's quite rare for me to reach the 'mature' rating. And I like it as such. I don't think I can write 'explicit'. Maybe one day... 
> 
> The usual disclaimers apply. This is an idea purely from my untamed imagination and in no ways it reflects the opinions of the people mentioned.

_‘But later,’ – Yuzuru’s hand is touching his own cheek and the Spaniard is the one to swallow hard this time – ‘later is only for Javi.’_

The _later_ never came.

He lays on the carpeted floor of his room, his hand extended to the ceiling feeling the emptiness run through his fingers. The room is cold even with the windows closed as the midnight breeze creeps through the tiny crevice between the frame and the wall. He’s immersed in a sea of darkness, except for the moonlight reflected on his bronze medal next to him. He can almost hear an echo of metal on metal, blades on ice, hands on _his_ face.

 _Yuzuru’s_ face.

He sits up, the sudden name on his lips tastes bitter and he lets out a forceful puff of air lodged on his throat. He grabs the medal and drops it almost as quick – static electricity _hurts_.

He punches the carpet hard and falls back to the floor, his knees drawn to his chest. It’s good to be home, he thought. It’s good to smell the aroma of cotton flower in his house, to taste the sweetness of homemade _churros madrileños_ , to hear the velvety _español_ on people’s tongues, he thought. Laura’s reprimand voice, Roni’s coy purring, and _his_ loud laughter, he thought.

 _His_ shallow breath after a few strokes, _his_ hair that fell over his eyes when he tied his boots, _his_ fat and unbearably cute yellow bear who refused to go back to the forest, he thought.

He climbs to his bed and tries to fall asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

‘There is about ten seconds when everybody is silent, and you can only hear your heart.’

Like now in his dark blue suit and red wine tie in front of the cameras for _El País_. Olympic duties as he named them – rejoice the medal, meet sponsors, plan his own future. Questions and answers come and go smoothly – his feelings of being on the podium, what he eats for extra diligence, why biting lemons.

He’s exhausted by lunch time and leather shoes are even more uncomfortable than new skates. He orders a latte near his home, caffeine should do its work, and Misha keeps the world updated – gala practices are fun, speed skating races, curling with water bottles – _his_ ankle looks fine.

He takes a sip of the coffee – it’s lukewarm and the milk tastes too strong.

He wants to go back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Only one more shot until the Games end. Tighten the laces and you won’t feel the pain, he thought. He nods to Kikuichi-san, says _yes_ to Briand, that he will be careful and not try crazy stunts (if possible), and glides away in the vast whiteness he trusts more than anything.

He does a few laps, ninety degree spirals, traces the pristine ice with spread eagles and confides in one delayed axel jump. There is a collective gasp and clapping but freedom is cut short for a new choreography. All invited skaters are there, some paying more attention than others to the instructions and they test some positions, gestures and kicks for the final pose.

He notices _his_ back, _his_ white jacket with red and yellow stripes on the sleeve and _España_ on the side. He notices the distance between them.

For moments there is only chaos. What is order when you can trip your fellow compatriots, prepare your audition for the next _haute couture_ runway, or convince Ondrej Hotarek to lift you? He laughs, he almost cries of excitement and he’s just a child, happy that he’s flying. His eyes meet Javier’s for a brief instance and his blades are back on the ground immediately after.

_I am brave, I am bruised, I am who I’m meant to be._

The choreographer finally releases a long sigh of relief when most steps are synchronized with the song and allows the naughty children to return to their playground before she loses more locks of her hair. Some of them leave the rink, some jump to the cushioned boards, and some return to their footage for a director’s debut.

 _He_ too still has _his_ back to him.

Not for too long, he thinks. He dashes in a cheetah’s gallop, he sprints in a leopard’s rage, and he dives in _his_ direction, his claws ready to capture his prey – the green pants. He pulls them down in revenge for the neglect since the podium. The Spaniard almost falls and his saved by his own reflexes.

He laughs. He hopes the laughter echoes in _his_ ears as much as it drums on his. He grabs _him_ by _his_ wrist, adjusting back the balance and they twirl on the axis between their bodies. _His_ glasses can’t hide _his_ jet-lag tired eyes and he intensifies the grip on _his_ arm.

‘Later.’ – It is the only thing he says among his laughter before he leaves.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He looks at empty corridor again, at the silver handle and the room number. His hands tremble, only a little, and he studies the string of words, fast and foreign, like his own pulse, beyond that door. He must be talking to someone. He almost turns around to go back to his own nest when he hears his own name.

_Yuzuru._

Silence greets him. His hand is drawn into a fist and he knocks at the door.

One second, two, there is still silence, four, five – did _he_ hear the call?

The metallic cylinder twists and he tries to maintain his breathing steady. The door opens.

It’s a different jacket but the same jet-lag tired eyes.

‘Yuzu.’

‘Javi.’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_‘Later is only for Javi.’_

He steps aside without uttering any other word and lets the younger skater in. He closes the door but his hand is still gripping the handle and his mind goes on short-circuit. He stares at the wooden surface and he curses under his breath for being weak.

‘I’m sorry,’ – He swallows hard – ‘I shouldn’t have left for Spain suddenly.’

_Are you going to leave me now, Yuzuru?_

The other skater doesn’t say a word but he feels a hand on his and a weight on his shoulder. Puffs of warm air tickle his neck and he relaxes in the touch.

‘Javi is _stupid._ ’

He chuckles. He knows he’s the fool in the deck, the jester in their court. He finally turns around and he hugs Yuzuru – strong and with an iron grip so he won’t evaporate in the magical air between them. He buries his face in the exposed collarbone, the scent of vanilla addictive and intoxicating, so intense it blinds him. He licks that sweet spot and delights in the shiver of his partner’s body.

They finally move – Yuzuru moves back and he chases, his hands never leaving his slender waist. The younger man hums a melody, one he thinks he knows but he’s not sure, and he follows his instincts. He lets himself be led on this dance of small steps and subtle hips swaying, his on Yuzuru’s, Yuzuru’s on his, in the rhythm his partner dictated and the pace he commanded.

They fall both on the soft mattress, gravity pulling them down at its whimsical desire, and they laugh at the impact. Yuzuru is slightly short of breath – he is not. He runs his fingers on his forehead, brushes away the wet strands, he brings his lips to meet the soft skin.

The Japanese skater closes his eyes, surrenders to him (oh, sweet victory), and fails to contain a giggle.

‘Javi is a bear.’

He giggles too, their heads pressed together, and he drinks in the joy of the moment. His fingers caress his flushed cheeks, the warm and pink lips. He wants to kiss them, savor the sweetness again until he drowns completely, but he restrains himself. He continues down, the Adam’s apple (he feels the tremor and the muscles as he swallows), the red patch of skin on his collarbone that he tasted before.

There are no rhinestones on his tracksuit now, nor golden lines and stars from his divine warrior self. There is a silver zipper and he can fight (and win) that, exposing the hectic up and descending rhythm of his chest and the toned muscles that makes him mortal. The younger man moans at the sudden coldness and he watches it with a predator’s gaze.

His hand continues the exploration but it stops on his heart. He can feel it beating strongly against his palm and he presses down – blame gravity.

_Does my hand feel as heavy as your medal?_

It’s heavier, he thinks he hears amidst their breathing. He helps Yuzuru sit at the edge of the bed – he wants the Olympic champion to see how much he loves him so he knows where he belongs. He kneels in front of him, his knight, and he removes the rest of the obstructions – the trainers, the tracksuit pants – the _bandages_.

‘Javi.’

He unwraps the white strips of cloth carefully woven around the bruised ankle – it’s red and swollen – and he mentally forbids him from performing at the gala tomorrow. It won’t happen he knows – the swan will soar even in its dying breath – and he bites the injured skin.

Yuzuru cries sharply in pain.

_Oh, sweet music to his ears._

‘Shsssh,’ – He kisses the same place he bit – ‘It’s only for now.’

He meets Yuzuru’s eyes, glistening with unshed tears, his parted lips, and he finds them so arousing, so exciting – so _beautiful_.

_Will you leave me now, Yuzuru?_

The Japanese skater is the one to pull him back by the collar of his jacket with such a force he can barely stand and he trips forward, their foreheads hitting each other, so as their lips. It is wet and a mess, rough desire and pain, a battle of tongues for dominance, and he concedes defeat.

Their positions are reversed, and he can’t help but tremble in anticipation. His hands are tied by his own nerves but he feels a pair on him, clumsy and shaking at times, skillfully and slowly moving down and _perfect_ in the right places. So perfect he wants to _beg_.

_More._

He gasps for air when Yuzuru takes him in and he digs his nails in his smooth thighs so he stays there for the moment and he can imprint in what’s left of his rationality the feeling of being inside of him. It’s warm, he feels the fire, and it is waves of lust that fogs his mind and commands him to thrust, harder. Yuzuru moans loud, so does he.

‘ _Javi_.’

The younger skater chants his name, ‘ _Javi_ ’, again and again, as he rides him, low and high, ‘ _Javi!_ ’, without inhibition and shame. Sweat runs down his face and he almost loses control of his chaotic rhythm.

_Lose it Yuzuru._

He smiles – the pleasure is overwhelming and rips his sanity apart. He instinctively searches for his partner’s hand – _so you know you are mine_.

They come at the same time, both spent and tired, cries on the tip of their tongues and their bodies shaking from the outburst of life. He wraps his arm around Yuzuru, who’s still on top of him, flushed, trying to recover his breath and still smelling of intoxicating vanilla. He kisses his eyes lids, slowly and tenderly.

‘ _Javi_.’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Guarda che notte stellata_

_D'amore per noi_

_Tu mi ami già_

He looks up to the ceiling and down to the ice. He smiles and bows to the audience, the thousands of eyes locked on him and _his_ as well. The white feathers in his costume twirl with him and with each gesture he makes. His ankle hurts but he can still skate.

It’s almost the end. He tries not to cry.

The final number finishes, they gather for a hug, arms over his head, around his neck, his waist, colliding heads and selfie on a lift.

It’s the final victory lap and he carves the last lines on that rink. He can feel him approaching and he extends his hand.

Javi takes it.

He tries not to cry.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when the author (aka me) is an emotional mess and the only way to find some solace is through writing. Life is harsh. Fiction is not. 
> 
> Comments are much appreciated! *gives cookies to whoever wants them (you choose the flavor :P)*


End file.
